‘Of course you do.’ Rosalind kissed him on the cheek. ‘Congratulations, Walter. The sooner you marry her, the better, as far as I’m concerned, but wouldn’t you like to announce your engagement with a party?’

‘No, we both shy away from things like that, Rosie. I was thinking we might marry at the end of the Easter term. I’ll have finished my degree course by then, and who knows? I might have had some luck publishing my book of poems.’

‘A June wedding will be wonderful,’ Rosalind said happily. ‘It’s something to plan for and look forward to. That is what we must do now, Walter. We need to look to the future.’

Next morning, having satisfied herself that Dolly was thriving in Eliza Madge’s care, Rosalind rode Sheba and Hudson saddled up Piers’ horse Warrior for Alexander. They rode to the cottage in the woods, with Fletcher following in the dog cart driven by a reluctant Gurney. In less than twenty-four hours Fletcher had managed to alienate most of the servants both indoor and outdoor, and Rosalind was convinced that she enjoyed creating a stir. However, when they arrived at the cottage in the clearing, where evidence of the fire many years ago was still to be seen in the burned and blackened tree stumps, Fletcher seemed as thrilled as a child. She sprang down from the cart and stood with her hands clasped, gazing at the cottage with shining eyes. There had been a hard frost overnight and every blade of grass and each individual dead leaf sparkled in the pale winter sunlight.

‘I never seen nothing so quaint,’ she said in a low voice. ‘It reminds me of a picture book me dad stole for me when I was just a nipper.’

Alexander opened the front door. ‘Well, don’t stand there in the freezing cold. Come inside, Fletcher, and light a fire. Do something useful.’

Rosalind followed him into the main room, which served as both kitchen and parlour. Despite a recent coat of whitewash on the newly plastered walls, there was still a lingering smell of charred wood. It was quite obvious that Lambert had left hurriedly without even bothering to clear away the remains of his last meal. Used cutlery was scattered over the table, together with empty beer bottles and plates with the congealed remnants of food. Mouse droppings littered the newspaper that Lambert had used as a tablecloth and ashes spilled onto the tiled floor in front of the range. It was hardly a welcoming sight. Rosalind was beginning to wish that she had sent some of the cleaning women to make the place habitable, but Fletcher marched into the room with a delighted smile on her face. She shrugged off her woollen cape and rolled up her sleeves.

‘I’ll soon have this place shipshape. I likes a challenge. Out of me way, please. I got work to do.’